


Pregnant By Morning

by CylonsAreMySpiritAnimal



Category: Loki - Fandom, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor - Fandom
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Asgard, Belly Kink, Bifrost, Breeding, Breeding Kink, But Eventually Reader Wants All of the Above, Cervical Penetration, Childbirth, Cock Warming, Come as Lube, Ejaculate, Explicit Sexual Content, Extinction, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Graphic Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Heirs, Hela - Freeform, Humor, I Will Go Down With This Kink, I'm Taking This Kink As Far As I can, Imma Stop Right Here and Smoke a Cigarette, Impregnation, Infertility, Jotun Loki, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötnar | Jotuns | Frost Giants (Norse Religion & Lore), King Loki, Large Cock, Loki - Freeform, Loki Norse Religion and Lore, Loss of Virginity, Loud Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, No (Your name), Orgasm Denial, Original Fiction, POV Female Character, POV Original Character, Penis In Vagina Sex, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Ragnarok, Reader-Insert, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Simultaneous Orgasm, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, Thor - Freeform, Twins, Virginity, Virginity Kink, Wedding Night, Why Did I Write This?, birth kink, fertility, orgasmic birth, twin pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CylonsAreMySpiritAnimal/pseuds/CylonsAreMySpiritAnimal
Summary: The only fertile noblewoman to have been born in centuries, you are Asgard's last hope of continuing the Odinson line. Tonight, you will conceive Loki's heir.Just a Loki/Reader writing experiment involving shameless pregnancy kink and smut that developed a plot along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and thanks to the incomparable Devilish Doll, whose patience/feedback/encouragement helped bring this all together. 
> 
> (Go check out her fic [The Patron Saint of Sucking Cock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217185/chapters/45690172). It's all the things.)

"You are unhappy," remarks the king.

His astute observation startles you and for the first time that day, you lift your eyes to look at him directly. This man, the king, who is now your husband.

"I do not," he hesitates, as though what he was about to say next is as much of a surprise to him as it will be to you, "wish for you to be unhappy."

"My happiness has never accounted for very much, your highness," you answer softly.

You can tell he appreciates the sad truth in your words. For as long as you can remember, your happiness has accounted for nothing; the only fertile noblewoman to have been born within the last three centuries, you have been brought up since childhood to serve a single purpose: To conceive, carry, and bear the heir of the king of Asgard.

His eyes hold yours, until your gaze drifts back to the small vial that you have been clutching in your hand since the moment you entered the king's bedchambers.

There is a soft touch at your chin. With great reluctance, you allow him to tip your face up towards his and force yourself to look in his eyes once more.

"Make no mistake, my dear," his smile is warm, but his voice is bitter, "I am no decent man. I am given to the same urges, the same needs, as any other. But," he swallows and releases you before glancing away, "tempting as you are, know this: I would never take a woman by force."

Your mouth opens and closes several times until finally you are able to find your voice. Lack of sleep and nerves have dulled your brain; he is not speaking sense. This does not make _sense._

"But...my lord, I do not understand," you protest weakly, "Consent or none, the Odinson line - it - it would -"

"Die with me?" the king finishes for you. He smirks. "What a loss, indeed. Wine?"

You blink stupidly at the cup being offered to you, uncertain of the appropriate reaction.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to leap off of the bed in jubilation.

You want to dissolve into hysterical laughter.

You do none of these things; you burst into tears.

Several minutes pass as you weep, face buried in your hands, and the king waits patiently until you manage to recompose yourself.

"But what would become of me?" you ask softly, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

The king was still waiting for you to take the cup.

"Fertility potions fail all the time, pet," he says matter-of-factly.

Realizing that alcohol is perhaps not the best option for you at present, he waves a hand over the wrought metal tumbler and transforms it into a silk handkerchief, which he hands over to you before continuing, "And although the palace physicians have gone out of their way to confirm my virility," a trace of genuine amusement touches his lips, "they have no means of truly predicting the compatibility of my seed and your womb." He shrugs a shoulder. "We need only keep up appearances for the immediate future, and then the council, in all their infinite wisdom, shall have to call Thor back from Vanaheim and re-assume his responsibilities - both in and out of the bedroom."

Were the king's eyes twinkling?

"No dishonor will befall you, I promise you," he assures you. "Now, my dear," the king draws himself up and places his half-consumed cup of wine aside, "you are exhausted, as am I. Let us try to sleep."

Two things happen then, both of your own volition:

You reach out, fingers snagging the king's and holding fast, as the words, "Wait, my lord," fall from your lips.

The king studies your intertwined hands briefly, his thumb drifting across your knuckles. The sensation is soft and strangely intimate, and imbues you with courage.

"Take me," you whisper. "Please."

The resigned humor that has been lurking in the tilt of his smile fades, and his gaze sharpens.

"You came to my bed unwillingly, little queen," he accuses. The grip he has on your hand tightens as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed and draws you towards him on your knees. "Why this sudden reluctance to leave it now?"

"No one has ever given me the choice," you explained simply.

The innocence of your response takes him aback, but he masks his confusion with a twisted smile.

"And for this reason alone you would allow me to sire a child within you?" he counters, sounding dubious.

Your free hand unconsciously grips the bedclothes, but your voice remains steady. "Yes, my lord."

Smoldering heat has entered into his eyes, but his skepticism remains obvious. Determined to convince him of your sincerity, you withdraw your hand from his and snatch the vial up from where it sits forgotten on the bedclothes. Haste makes your fingers clumsy but you manage to uncork it and knock back the contents in a single swallow. The concoction is cloyingly sweet and you cannot quite hide your shudder.

His gaze not leaving yours, his grip on your fingers grows painful.

"You know what I am?" His voice was husky.

"Yes, my lord," you nodded, unafraid. The healers had informed you of the king's heritage. You were aware of the risks. Before, you were too detached to care about your own well being to fear the thought of carrying a Jotunn's offspring, but now? You still care nothing of the risks...because suddenly your need for him - to be filled by him - is so great.

A foreign expression - vulnerability - shadows his face as he takes your other hand and gently tugs you closer. Your eyes remain locked with the king's as he gathers you onto his lap, placing you sideways and draping your legs across his knees. You have no difficulty meeting his gaze now, and your heart stutters when you see that his pupils have gone wide, blown so large that his eyes, ordinarily ice-blue, are nearly black.

"There would be no turning back," he warns you, his voice low. His hand comes to rest on your belly, a gesture intended to serve as a sobering reminder of the consequences of what you are proposing - but the only thought in your head is an image of him repeating the very same gesture when you are with child.

Your heart skips again.

The king's palm is gently pressing into your abdomen and you try to refocus your attention.

"You've taken the potion," he is saying, "I've no means now of reversing its effects. If I bed you tonight, you will be pregnant by morning. Are you certain?"

The king's concern serves only to further cement your resolve. Your singular purpose has not changed, but your perception of the man before you is irrevocably altered, and as a result, you have traversed the fine line between duty and desire.

"I am certain, my lord," you affirm.

His lips part in surprise, and his eyes flutter shut as you raise your hand and touch his cheek.

"Take me," you repeat, and this time your voice is warm with conviction, "husband."

The king's eyes fly open, and widen further when he sees you smiling up at him. The heat that has been lurking in his gaze begins to smolder and threatens to ignite the longer he drinks in the sight of you.

"Oh, little queen," he breathes hoarsely, "I should -"

What the king should do will forever remain a mystery to you, for he catches you in a bruising kiss before he can finish.

The next few minutes pass in a whirlwind of caresses and kisses and skin, and culminate with you beneath your husband in bed, trusting his whispered reassurances as he guides your leg over his shoulder and begins to slowly enter you for the first time. 

You are a maiden, but you are wet - _dripping_ wet. It is an effect of the potion, but the need is all your own, and the king is met with such little resistance that you would feel embarrassed were you not already preoccupied with the confluence of sensations building at the apex of your thighs. There is pain as your virgin walls are gradually spread open, but lurking behind the acute ache is something so unlike pain, something so unfamiliar to you that you have no words to describe it.

The king gives a sharp exhale when the head of his cock has slipped completely inside, and as his jaw snap audibly shut, his hands fist the bedclothes on either side of your head. He draws a ragged breath, reigning in the instinct to hilt himself in your depths in one single, brutal thrust. 

"It's not you, darling," he tells you through clenched teeth, "it's - _Ah!_ gods, it's your tight, _perfect_  little..." His voice strains and trails off, but when a kiss ghosts across your brow, you sense that he is once more in control of his consuming need to claim you.

As his hips continue to press relentlessly forward, his thick shaft penetrating and stretching you inch by inch -- rumors of the king's length and girth were no exaggeration -- his hand drifts to where your bodies are joined. Clever digits part your folds and begin to glide up and then down, long, deliberate strokes. On every pass, the inside of his third finger skims directly against a little bundle of nerves hidden above your center; you are so overly-sensitized that his fingers against you should have been grating, but your own natural lubrication is so abundant that it provides a thick, slippery barrier. A throbbing, exquisite ache is mounting deep in your core, and a gasped cry leaves your mouth.

"Are you well, my love?"  

Your mouth clamps shut at his question. _You are a noblewoman!_ you savagely remind yourself. Noblewomen are not reduced to making a harlot's noises as they are taken by their husbands!

Trying to preserve what is left of your dignity (an impossibility given that the king has not once stopped stroking you), you swallow hard and manage a nod.

In truth, however, you are more than 'well.' Your awareness is beginning to pinpoint only to the burning ecstasy he is giving to you, a perfect balance of pleasure so blindingly intense that it balances on a knife's blade of pain. You fight to remain quiet, but a warm, unfamiliar tension has started to gather in your pelvis. You can feel your passage relaxing as it simultaneously swells with arousal, growing evermore lush as your husband sinks himself deeper into your center. You cannot help the moan that escapes you, it is getting to be  _too much,_ this sensation of _fullness_ -

The king lets out a grunted curse of satisfaction; he is fully sheathed within you at last, buried so deep that the head of his cock crowds against entrance of your womb.

"Open your eyes, sweetling," he pants.

You did not remember closing them. Your eyes fly open, and you look up to see the king staring down at you, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of forcing himself to take you considerately and carefully. 

Chest heaving, he waits for you to speak, but you are too overwhelmed to reply.

"Say my name," he pleads when you continue to stare breathlessly up at him.

"L-Loki," you stammer.

A smile flickers across his face and one of his hands finds yours to intertwine your fingers together. As he shifts to place your clasped hands on the pillow, his other hand retreats from between your legs to brace himself on his elbow. His dips his head down to you, holding your gaze as he touches his forehead against yours, and then slowly, he eases out of you.

Your eyes squeeze shut as he withdraws. He takes his time in order to ensure that the swollen head of his shaft grazes every inch of the spongy, wet folds of your passage. Drawing himself out as far as he can, he pauses before surging forth once more, and utters a groaned hum of pleasure when he is tightly cushioned within you again.

Advance, retreat. In, out. Forward, back.

These first careful thrusts soon grow long and languid, and as the coiling sensation in your lower belly continues to throb and expand, you bite back another wanton moan.

"Relax, little one," you hear the king say. He half-shrugs to slip your leg off of his shoulder; catching the back of your knee in his hand, he pushes your bent leg down to the mattress and holds it there, opening you wider. "Let me hear you," he urges.

The change in position causes the sensitivity of your core to increase tenfold as the king resumes his pace. You start writhing beneath him, fighting the cries that are threatening to tear from your throat, but this ache, this _need,_ is taking you to the brink of near-madness. 

Your husband is determined to help you overcome your shyness. He slides a hand beneath your lower back to tilt your pelvis up, changing the angle of your channel and in turn, the path of his cock. Two things happen: The ridge at the base of his cock's head can now stimulate other areas within you that until now have been neglected, and as he moves in and out, the silken hardness of his shaft grazes between your lips, attending the swollen nub protruding from the center of your folds. The effect is exquisitely intense.

And with that, you decide you will be the harlot.

Your hips rise to meet your husband's, and your demure whimpers escalate to unfettered wails that are timed with every thrust. 

"More, darling," he moans, quickening his pace, "Hold nothing back."

You need no further encouragement. 

Soon you start to experience a baffling need to bear down each time your husband withdraws, which in turn causes an inexplicable gush of arousal from your body. The first time it happens, there is one wild instant you wonder if the king has spelled you in some way, preparing your muscles for the birth of the child he will put in you this night. But his appreciative groan when he feels the warmth of your juices running down his thick cock -- and him subsequently jamming himself back into you a moment later in hopes of a repeat performance of this incredibly-arousing phenomenon -- tells you the only magic at play is the utter perfection of your body's response to his.

"Such gifts you have given me this night, pet," he pants, moving to cup your breast with his free hand, "Your trust," he beings rolling your nipple between his first and second fingers, "Your love," he bends his head down, laving the tender flesh with his tongue and suckling briefly before drawing back, "Your maidenhead," his eyes grow bright and hungry as he finishes, "Your womb."

You shiver, hearing this.

"I cannot wait to see you ripen, month by month," he continues, his eyes falling shut as he envisions this very image, "to watch and worship you as my son grows within you."

"And," you pant, each word interspersed by him steadily pumping into you, "If – it – is – a – daughter?"

The king shudders at your response; the knowledge that your wants may be truly aligned with his own is enough to send him to the edge of climax. You brace yourself when you feel his cock twitch and start to swell inside of you, but he holds himself in with a strangled hiss.

His breath, strained and hot in your ear: "Son, daughter; I care not," he replies, "I only want to see you heavy with my child. I want to return to my chamber each night to find you in my bed, pregnant and wet and ready for me. I want to see a babe at your breast and your belly already ripe and swelling again." He changes rhythm, circling his hips at the end of each thrust and continues, speaking over your incoherent pleas for more, "I want you to fall asleep every night with my cock buried deep within you, and I want you to wake every morning with my seed dripping down your legs. You womb will never be empty; I shall keep it filled with my heirs, and the times when you are not with child, you will be filled with my seed to ensure another pregnancy --"

He stops short; the mere act of confessing these vivid fantasies to you is propelling the him towards his release again, paralyzing his famed silver tongue. The only speech of which he is capable is saying your name between loud, prolonged grunts of lust, expressed in its basest, wordless form. 

The king's confessions have driven you into a strange state of madness and find yourself equally insatiable, wanting him deeper, harder. The squelch of your combined fluids is obscene and you spread your legs wide, silently pleading with your body to be receptive as a warm, coiling sensation continues to unfurl in your core. This man, and the choice that was made for you is now your choice, and you choose him. Every desire he has vocalized is becoming your desire, and you want to be filled with his seed and bear his children.

No. You _need_ to be filled with his seed and bear his children.

As if he has heard your unspoken wish, the king's body shudders, just as before, but now he unleashes what has has been holding back. His cock begins to pulse and with a ragged shout, he starts spilling inside of you.

Thick ropes of his seed surge into your core, flooding your channel with hot, viscous spurts of potential new life. His production is copious and leaks out you of as he withdraws, only to plunge into and leave more of his essence within you. You are a quick study and know to squeeze his throbbing cock each time he retreats, milking every drop as soon as it leaves him.

His thrusts soon begin to slow. Surely he has expended himself, you assume, but the king is only just at the start of his release. Without breaking stride -- and somehow still keeping himself firmly hilted within you -- he flips you around, and you find yourself on your hands and knees before him. A lanky arm snakes around your waist. He leans the both of you back, and with a groan so passionate you feel the vibration of it throughout your body, he begins snapping his hips up into you in a deep scooping motion to continue to ride out his climax. You are also approaching your own brink, growing taunt as a bow as pressure and heat continue building towards what promises to be an explosive peak. 

Suddenly the king grips your hips with both hands and wrenches you violently against him. His muscles lock behind you and his back arches; his orgasm is cresting at last. His pours his seed into you, and roars with every exhale as he strives to fill you with as much of his pearly white essence as possible.

The angle of your positioning is intense, bordering on painful, and you realize that the very tip of him has slightly penetrated your cervix. The entrance of your womb throbs with the intrusion, yet the discomfort electrifies you with the knowledge that he will put a child in you tonight. Your body's natural fertility, coupled with the potion and the simple physics of his proximity within you guarantees it. Deep, aching heat gathers in your abdomen as your womb slowly expands to take all that he is placing within you, blanketing you from within and providing fertile ground to take root.

_I will be pregnant by morning._

And with this delirious thought, you, too, are flung over the precipice.

The tightening coil in your pelvis snaps, and your walls begin to spasm violently. Your head falls back in a silent scream as wave after wave of pleasure explode throughout your center and surge outward in a rush of heat. Every nerve ending in your body seems to have come alive. The edges of your vision are beginning to blacken; needing something to anchor you in this sweet chaos of pleasure and ecstasy, you reach back, fingers tangling in your husbands hair and gripping hard. Suddenly you are able to breathe again and your voice returns, allowing your sobbed screams to fill the air.

The king rides you hard through your first climax, and continues to thrust up and into you even after your cries start to abate. Despite the intensity -- and duration -- of his earlier release, his shaft has yet to soften, and hearing and feeling you come undone upon his cock has excited him so that he is already twitching again.

His arm slides down from where it is wrapped around your waist and his hand goes to the apex of your legs. He parts your folds, and uses his first and third fingers to draw back the hood of skin surrounding your nub, and holds his digits there to ensure the tiny bud of nerves remains fully exposed. He reaches down with his opposite hand, bringing his third finger between your lips and begins to draw feather-light circles directly on your most sensitive spot.

A second climax slams into you seconds later; you recover quickly and start bucking your hips to gain better purchase against his wicked fingers, greedily chasing a third. 

The sapphire blue of his magic swirls before you and temporarily obstructs your vision; the sight that greets you when your eyes clear takes your breath away. Before you is the same chamber, the same god, the same bed, but _you_ \- you are transformed.

Your body swells with new life, your breasts so abundantly full that they brush the enormous rise of your belly. You are heavy with child and the king handles you with due care, his face alight with warmth that leaves him nearly unrecognizable. In this vision of the future, your positioning is identical to as you are now - your back against his chest, legs spread wide atop his thighs as he pumps in and out of you from behind. 

The king's right hand kneads one of your pendulous breasts as the left possessively cradles your belly, the fruit of his loins. It is the closest he will come to being able to hold the child you carry within you until you give birth - which, judging from your size, could happen any day. In the vision your eyes are closed but your mouth is half-open, your breath coming in soft pants. You appear on the verge of a slow, lazy release, when you see yourself suddenly grimace and twist your head, pressing your face in the king's neck.

A knowing look comes into his eye and he shifts, his hand dropping from your breast to your abdomen. 

"Breathe, darling," he whispers and changes his rhythm to quick, shallow thrusts.

You realize this vision he has sent you is you laboring in the midst of lovemaking. He is pleasuring you through each contraction, using his cock to massage you deep from within, dulling the pain while simultaneously coaxing your womb open in preparation for birth.

He is highly aroused by your state - his face is beaded with perspiration, and his gleaming shaft is so painfully engorged you can see every vein bulging beneath the skin - but his movements are controlled and deliberate. He is on the very cusp of climax but holding his release at bay, keeping himself rock-hard to ensure he is able to ease your discomfort as you bring his heir into the world.

The contraction is long and intense, and you watch with fascination as your double pants through clenched teeth. You are clearly in pain, yet a tell-tale blush is coming into your cheeks as the king continues to rock his hips into you. Your nipples slowly harden, and droplets of milk start to bead at the tips, eventually dribbling in twin trails down your ripe, distended stomach. Your head drops back against the king's shoulder with an aching cry of relief as your water breaks at last, enabling the second stage of labor to finally begin. 

This respite is short-lived, however. The contractions start up in earnest; you see yourself panic, and your gasped breaths escalate to screams as the agony mounts and does not stop. The king hastily withdraws himself from your channel so as not to obstruct the baby's descent, and shifts to reposition you so you sit still leaning against him, but bracketed between his legs. Teeth gritted, you attempt to draw your knees up when another contraction hits you. The king reaches around you, firmly gripping the front of your shins with both hands and drawing your knees back towards him, opening your thighs as far back and as wide apart as they will go so you can bear down.

Your double is fighting her way through another contraction when you hear the king - your king, not the king in this vivid future that you long to be your eventual reality - murmur in your ear: "How radiant you are, birthing my child. How ready your body is."

His voice is well-controlled, and it distantly registers that he is still thrusting into you but not enough to satisfy you; he is intentionally holding you back from another release. You notice that in the vision you are readying to bear down again; you follow suit, timing your efforts with the moment your husband draws back so you can bathe the length of his cock in more of your glistening ichor. The strategy works like a charm; the king swears and shoves you down to the bed, putting you back on your hands and knees, and in four hard thrusts, gives you the orgasm that you have rightfully earned.

"The baby is crowning, my love," the other king is saying as he watches the progress between your double's legs from over her shoulder. "Push as hard as you can this time -- harder -- _harder_ \-- that's it, darling, that's it, keep pushing, just a little longer -- don't stop, pet, you are so nearly there -- "  

Watching his child be born proves too much for your husband, and the sight of yourself -- leaning forward between your knees, eyes squeezed shut and face reddening as you bear down with all your might, your entrance steadily widening as a tiny head begins to emerge from your body -- wisps away as he climaxes violently. You are still quivering with the aftershocks of your own multiple releases, but the unexpected gush of his seed sluicing your cervix causes you to orgasm again with a wild squeal of surprise. 

The bedclothes are saturated with pools of arousal and seed, but the sheets are dry the moment you and the king collapse together in a limp heap on the mattress. You feel an odd pinching sensation as he slips free of you; he has cast a spell that cinches your womb tightly closed, ensuring nary a drop of his essence goes to waste. There is an odd heaviness low in your belly, and you glance down at yourself in confusion, your eyes widening when you see that your abdomen is slightly swollen. The king has done his job so well that you have been filled to the literal brim, and now it is your body's turn to do its work and conceive his child.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, noticing your shock. "My efforts were overzealous. Still..." He reaches and smooths his hand over the new faint curve of your belly. His eyes meet yours, and in them you see the burgeoning of hopeful light you had seen in the vision. "A preview of things to come," he whispers reverently.

You are too exhausted to think of a reply and simply beam up at him.

The king rewards your smile with a grin of his own, followed by a deep, lingering kiss. Helping you to lie down, he adjusts you so you are nestled into his side, head tucked under his chin, and draws the blankets over you both. Your husband settles back with a contented sigh, his hand coming to rest protectively on your abdomen as his eyes fall shut. You put your hand over his and snuggle close, sated, loved, and at peace in the knowledge that come morning, you will wake with the heir to the Nine Realms in your womb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most ridiculous fucking thing I've ever written. AND BOY DID I HAVE FUN.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, guys. This thing generated more attention in two days than some of my other fics have in two years. 
> 
> (Which is depressing. Won’t lie. Sigh.)
> 
> But, as they say – sex sells! So let’s get right back to it, shall we?

Three weeks have passed since your wedding. Three blissful, wonderful weeks in which you have been equal parts adored and debauched. Having entered the marriage with little hope of finding love, and you and the king both are overjoyed to be proven wrong – completely, beautifully wrong.

He delights in the discovery of your sharp wit and even sharper tongue, and for the first time in your life you are able to discard your demure exterior without fear of reproach. He is livid, however, when he learns that your entire education has been devoted almost solely to the topics of pregnancy, birth, and childcare. You are given free reign of the palace library, and most days must be torn from poring over book after book as you make up for the years you spent being denied knowledge.

The times when you are not reading, you are generally in the company of your husband, and during the times you are alone in the company of your husband, you are generally seated in one form or another upon his cock. He is a man of his word, your Loki; just as he promised, you drift to sleep each night with him still sheathed deep inside, and the first sensation to greet you when you leave the bed in the morning is the warm rush of seed as it flows out of your passage, a mixture of what he left in you the night before, and what he leaves in you soon after you awaken. 

It amuses him greatly that you are a heavy sleeper and often cranky when it is time to get up, and he makes a game of rousing you each day. Creeping his way under the blankets, he vanishes away your nightclothes and stealthily goes to work. Some mornings he drapes you over his chest, your legs riding high on either side of his hips, or perhaps nestles you beneath him to lie caged between his arms; on another day, he might spoon himself behind you and hitch your thigh back to rest hooked over his leg.

By the time he finally has you arranged, you are still soundly asleep, but his cock is very much awake – stiff and leaking, pearls of white slowly beading out from the tip, which is so engorged that the skin is nearly purple. Your entrance is still slick from the previous night’s congresses, and the king shudders as he aligns himself between your legs.

He endeavors to stay silent as he starts to push inside, but holding back his moans is impossible. Even this early in the pregnancy, your body has started to change – your maidenhead may be gone, but the influx of hormones has caused the walls of your channel to swell, and his throbbing cock is swathed in tight, tight heat as it finds its way home. Thus ensconced, he swallows hard, exhales slowly, and settles back to lie in wait.

Your husband’s hardness is always unparalleled, but even more so in those early morning hours, and you come alert to the sensation of aching pressure coming deep from within your pelvis. The sheer girth of his cock stretches every fold along the length and breadth of your passage and presses firmly into the base of your womb. You hum happily, and your next breath leaves you in a shaky sigh when your husband’s hips begin to move.

He watches you intently as the cobwebs continue to clear from your brain, studying your every reaction, taking note of what pleases you best, what combination of strokes and thrusts and speed brings forth your loudest, most wanton cries, and causes your channel to produce so much arousal that he can hear the sound of his cock as it wetly pistons in and out. It is as if he is convinced that he has not have done his job properly if he does not start your day off with at least one screaming orgasm.  

(Every day has started off very, very properly.)

He is insatiable, but not simply because of his voracious sexual appetite. Your husband is a man who has been gradually dying of thirst for years, lonely and starved of affection. Scores of women have graced his bed, but none ever found his heart -- until you. More than once you have half-awakened in the dark of night, feeling him slowly thrusting inside of you as he sleeps, not seeking release, but reassurance that his wife and unborn child remain at his side. 

The pregnancy is quickly confirmed, of course, first by Loki – his Seidr had sensed the baby’s presence right away – and, now, as of this morning, also by the lead physician and midwife.

Loki spends majority of the appointment rolling his eyes sky-high every time the doctor (still embittered that the ‘true’ heir to Asgard is not the father) expresses surprise that your first coupling led to success – an ironic response, as it is _he_ who had concocted the fertility potion, a fact he continues to boast to anyone within earshot. You are all too accustomed to Sindri’s odious personality; the man has been your physician from the time your monthly courses began, and you have spent the years since loathing the very sight of him. 

“Pompous, wretched, _bloody_ idiot,” your husband fumes after you are both alone once more. You are still seated on the healing bed, listening to him grouse as you fumble with your arms reached behind you, trying to loosen the lacing on your bodice.

He sees you struggling and goes to assist, still muttering as he sweeps your hair out of the way and over your shoulder and begins unknotting the straining ties.

“Were pride not on the line, I would have concealed the child’s presence completely,” the tension around your breasts slackens and you sag with relief, “Him and his thrice-damned _potion_. Better?”

You nod, and he sets about adjusting the remainder of the lacing, which goes down the length of your back.  

An idea occurs to you and you twist around to look at him.

“Will the baby be easier to see at the next exam, my lord?”

Imagining this milestone eases some of his ire and he smiles. “She will be, yes,” he answers, still concentrating on your lacings. “And, you are to call me Loki, pet.” He finishes re-tying your bodice and presses a quick kiss to the side of your neck before drawing your hair back into place. “Why?”

You smile up at him as he comes around to stand before you and assumes his usual wide-legged stance, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. A smirk plays about his mouth as he waits for you to reply; he knows the look on your face means trouble.

“Cast an illusion,” you suggest, “Cover the baby in scales, or give her a head full of horns. And then lay blame on the potion. I’m sure a night or two in the dungeons as punishment for medicinal incompetence would cure his bragging. Help me down, please?”

The king gazes at you for a moment and then lets out a half-laugh, shaking his head in amazement.

“You wicked, precious, _brilliant_ darling,” he exclaims. “Will I ever stop marveling at how perfect you are?”

“Oh, one day, I’m sure,” you laugh, putting your hands on his shoulders as he lifts you by the waist and lightly sets you on the floor. “And then I shall simply have to learn new tricks to impress you with.” You stand on tiptoe, and he leans down to bridge the difference in your height so you can kiss him. “But I should warn you, my lord,” you whisper in his ear as soon as you pull back, “I am _intimately_ acquainted with an expert of mischief.”

"Not intimately enough," the king draws you towards him, grave-faced. He is too pleased with your cheek to bother reminding you to call him by his name and not his title. "A dilemma we must correct. Immediately. Let us start with getting you out of this dress."

He spins you around and promptly sets about untying the bodice he has retied only minutes earlier, but a thought that has been worrying you for some time bursts forth before he has loosened the first knot.

"And you are not upset that it is a girl?" you blurt out.

The king freezes. Likewise, your heart seems to stop. After a moment, you feel his hands move from your bodice and up to your shoulders, and you are slowly turned around to face him. Your question has taken him utterly aback and for a time all he does is stare at you in speechless dismay. 

Misinterpreting his silence as him trying to think of a lie to conceal his disappointment, your face crumples.

"Oh, sweetness," he breathes when he sees your eyes have started to fill with tears. "No, no -- I am  _thrilled,"_ he insists. He gathers your hands in both of his and lifts them to his lips, covering them with kisses, and then stoops down to look you in the eyes. "I could not be happier you carry my daughter," he tells you earnestly.

You sniffle and ease your hands from his, unconvinced. Despite the late Allfather’s decree that daughters are eligible to inherit the throne in absence of a male heir, Asgard’s society remains firmly entrenched in gender bias, and women are still very much seen as the lesser sex. Sindri’s dour countenance had undergone a dramatic shift when the test results indicated you carried a princess and not a prince, and the image of his face when he shared this news is branded in your mind’s eye.

Loki’s brow puckers in a worried frown when a tear rolls down your cheek, one hand flexing absently at his side as he tries to understand why you are so distraught over something he sees as inconsequential. A moment of clarity seems to dawn on him, and his face softens.

Your teary eyes widen in bafflement as he lowers himself down to kneel at your feet. His hands come to rest on either side of your hips, and he leans forward, closing his eyes as his cheek comes to rest briefly against your stomach. Then he takes a deep breath and tilts his head back to look up you.

Holding your gaze with his, Loki places his right hand upon your lower abdomen, his long, elegant fingers splayed against the fabric of your gown, and when he goes to speak, he does so not as your husband but as your king.

"Grow this child, wife,” he quietly commands you. His voice is a solemn rumble, and in his eyes all you can see is the weight of his kingdom instead of the trademark mirth you have come to adore, “For she is a long-answered prayer for all of Asgard. Your womb will one day quicken with my son. But from this day forward, until the moment you give birth, you are not to concern yourself with any matters other than bearing me a healthy daughter.”

He is deadly serious.

You hastily wipe your cheeks and give a quick nod, determined to please him.

Satisfied, he releases you and rises to his feet, towering over you once more.

“And remember, pet,” his eyes grow warm, and suddenly he is your husband again, “Every child I sire upon you, I will love as much as I love you – be they daughters, sons, or cats.”

The gravity of the moment dissolves and you smack his arm, both of you laughing as he dodges away.

“And now,” he says, face re-alighting with mischief, “Back to business.” He crosses the distance between you in one long-legged stride and tugs you into arms.

His lips are gentle and soft upon your own, but you know him well enough by now to understand the nuances in his movements and murmuring, and you sense when his desire for you begins to shift in a different direction. Not breaking contact with your mouth, his hands slide up your arms, along your shoulders and neck until your face is cupped in his palms. The kiss deepens; you invite him in, and as his tongue is occupied exploring yours, you reach a hand between his thighs to grip his hardening shaft through his breeches.

“ _Minx_ ,” he growls appreciatively against your lips, and starts rutting into your palm –

Then he suddenly draws back, panting, his lust forgotten in a haze of panic.

You are not surprised, and look up at him patiently as his eyes dart back and forth between yours, roving over your face as he searches for affirmation that you are real, that your love for him is real, and that the child growing inside you is real – that you are not a figment of one of hundreds of fever dreams he has endured over the course of his lifetime.

“Say my name,” he whispers, “Say you love me.”

You do so, many times over. Overcome with emotion, he crushes you against him – and then releases you a moment later you when he hears your sharp whimper of pain.

You stand there, slightly hunched, arms drawn up to your chest, and feel yourself starting to worry under his scrutiny. Your breasts are painfully sensitive and have been for a number of days now, and you pray that he does not view your reaction to his embrace as a sign of rejection.

Thankfully, the king immediately sees the problem.

Frowning at your chest, he snaps his fingers. The lacing of your bodice goes entirely slack, and the stiff brocade loosens, dropping away to land in a heap on the floor as your breasts fall free of the fabric and spill forth. The relief is so great that you cannot bring yourself to care about being bare-chested and displayed in all your glory before your husband, outside of the bedchamber no less.

Loki’s mouth parts as he studies the angry red lines imprinted upon your upper back and torso, evidence of where the fabric of your clothing has been digging into your skin.

“We must have your dresses let out immediately,” he realizes out loud.

“You mean your clothing has not shrunk as well?” you ask, puzzled. All your clothes have felt tight as of late, but it was far too soon for you to be gaining weight. You came to the conclusion your gowns must have shrunk when they were last laundered, likely the result of the wash water being too hot. Having no interest in reprimanding the servants for such a minor mistake – you would be needing a new wardrobe soon enough as it was – you had let the matter drop, and started lacing your gowns as loosely as decency would permit.

The king appears to be fighting laughter.

Your eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?”

“You truly cannot tell?”

You look up at him blankly. Fondness gentles the mischief in his smile, and he reaches forward to gently gather up the heavy, sumptuous flesh of your breasts. His large hands are filled to overflowing as he cups you; only a week ago, you were a perfect fit, and now…

“Pregnancy agrees with you, my love,” he says in a husky voice as you blink down at yourself in surprise, “And seeing as it was I who put you in this state – allow me the honor of easing your discomfort.”

Without giving you an opportunity to reply, the king scoops you up in his arms and lifts you back onto the healing bed.

“My lord,” you stammer as he sits you down at the far end, leaving your legs to dangle over the edge, “I mean, Loki – I’m fine, really.” He lays you back, hitches up your skirts so he can stand between your knees, and then leans over you, dipping his head to your torso as you continue protesting all the while, “I mean, I am sore, but – perhaps we could – _ohhh…_ ”

A broad circumference of wet, suckling warmth has begun attending the peak of your left breast, courtesy of your husband, who has latched himself on in a manner very different than his usual approach when he has previously ravished this part of your body.

While you were babbling away, he was taking you deep in his mouth, and has since been using the silky heat of his cheeks to create a comforting pulling sensation against your flesh. Meanwhile, your right breast is cradled lovingly in his hand, being supported while waiting its turn.

The sensation is so deliciously soothing that your body goes slack and eyes nearly roll back in your skull. One hand drifts up to play with his hair, and your head lolls to the side as the dull ache fades away.

“Will you miss my breasts being this large after I have the baby?” you ask dreamily.

You hear him reply with a lazy hum; he is enjoying himself, his eyes closed, cheeks hollowing faintly in and out as he works. Taking his time, he soon releases you and leans back to admire the results of his efforts. Your nipple is soft, your areola is smooth and relaxed.

“I will have no reason to miss them,” he answers, shifting over to move to your other side, “These will be twice, three times the size by the time you deliver, filled with milk for you to nourish my daughter. And filled they shall remain. Remember what I told you on our wedding night, pet,” he adds, watching you hungrily, “A babe at your breast and another in your womb. I intend to keep that promise.”

The certainty in his words causes a rush of pleasure to run the length of your body, and another rush of heat surges inside your core as he begins suckling your right breast. Your mind floats away, imagining the experience of having him do this when you are further along in your pregnancy, when your breasts will be larger, but your body will be too ungainly for him to drape himself over you as he is now.

Erotic as the prospect is, however, you are a trickster’s wife through and through, and cannot help but tease him.

“I will not be able to bear children indefinitely,” you point out, smiling, “What then, my lord?”

The king’s eyes are black and slightly glazed as he lifts his head from your breasts to look at you, but there is a twinkle in their depths.

“What then?” he repeats with a smirk. “Oh, little wife…”

He is no sooner done chuckling than he is sweeping his hands up the inside of your thighs and pushing your legs back so your heels rest at the end of the smooth surface of the healing bed. For propriety’s sake, you persist in wearing underclothes, but they are not long for this world, and your neck arches as the king rips the scraps of fabric away and plunges the first and second fingers of his right hand into your core.

You start to writhe under his touch as he crooks his fingertips, seeking out the spongy knot of nerves hidden in the roof your channel. Finding it, he begins massaging you from within, moving in small circles and then increasing his speed when he feels the little bundle of flesh start to swell.  

“What then, you ask?” he purrs as he bends down over you, pausing long enough to nuzzle each of your breasts before he continues, “And then I will _still_ worship these, my love – sated by the memories of witnessing your transformation from maiden to mother, and watching your virginal orbs swell as you grow round with my child.”

The king silences your breathless whimpers with a languid kiss, and by the time he draws back, his own breathing is growing strained.

“I will remember admiring my infant daughters and sons as they nurse at your breast,” he tells you, voice roughening as he falls sway to his own fantasies, “Time and again seeing our youngest having their fill, contentedly resting on the curve of your belly as it ripens with their next sibling.”

Your right breast is firmly squeezed, laved, and sucked, and there is an audible _pop_ when his lips pull free of your nipple.

“I will relive the anticipation I feel at this very moment,” he says, “knowing that in a few months, every time I bring you to climax, whether on my cock, my mouth, or fingers, that milk will drip from your perfect, perfect breasts,” the digits in question change direction, changing from circles to tight vertical strokes, “evidence of the pleasure I have given you, proof of the child I have put in you – my seed, brought to life in your body.”

A third finger slides in to join the other two and he starts alternating between circles and strokes. He has you so perfectly stimulated that every ragged, moaning breath that leaves you is accompanied by an involuntary surge of arousal from between your legs.

His voice drops to a rasped whisper, “I will recall the pride in my heart as I watch you grace the halls of Asgard, heavily pregnant, your breasts hanging low upon your belly, and every courtier envying the sight of what I accomplished that they could not.”

Then, as if you were not already being pushed to the brink of orgasmic madness under the ministrations of his fingers, voice, and words, he proceeds to _show_ you.

It is the same vision from your wedding night, but this time from his perspective only: You see yourself from his point of view, your distended breasts, your thighs spread on either side of the bulging curve of your stomach. You are twisting against him in pain and can hear your breathy, grunted cries of frustration; he is inside you, but you cannot seem to find any relief.

“I will look back on the memory of watching over your shoulder as you labor,” he says in your ear, “Seated on my cock, allowing me to help ease your birth pangs, and seeing your nipples grow taut with every orgasm I give you.”

You see a pair of arms – his arms – come around the broadest part of your belly. He starts helping you move at a steadier pace so he can use his shaft to attend you more effectively during the contractions. Soon a very different cry starts up in your throat as he guides your hips back and forth, and your nipples slowly pebble into rosy, tight peaks.

“I will remember making love to you for the first time after each pregnancy, seeing your leaking breasts bounce on your chest as I ride you to my completion –”

You are seated on top of him in bed, leaning back with your arms braced on his thighs – your stomach is flat again but there is a softness to your belly that is new. Your breasts bob up and down as he thrusts, deep and hard, your hips flexing in time with his. The occasional droplets of white seep out from your nipples and trickle free, until he has you so stimulated that your milk lets down completely.

“And do you know what I will do then, pet?”

You could not provide a coherent response if your life depended upon it. His fingers have changed rhythm again; he pushes them into your center, scissors the long digits once, and then withdraws, over and over. He is mercilessly keeping you _just_ on the brink – you can feel your impending orgasm swelling inside, the base of your womb is quivering, all your nerves are braced for the onslaught, you are so, _so_ close – but the rhythm of his fingers remains steady, just fast enough to give you a glimpse of what awaits, but too slow to carry you across the threshold.

“Answer me, little one.”

With herculean effort, you manage to muster a groan that holds some semblance of a querying inflection.

The king’s fingers speed up, and at last you are granted a messy, wailing, heavy release. Distantly, you hear him growl, “I will fill your womb with my essence to conceive my next heir, and will not stop until I am certain my seed has taken root and you are with child once more.”

In the vision he surges up from the bed, pushes you down onto your back and thrusts into you a final time, holding himself there as his climax peaks. He is giving you far more than your channel can take, and the backflow of seed pulses out of you in slow, pearly gushes around the base of his shaft, each surge timed in sync with every spurt as it leaves his throbbing cock.

When the blue of his magic finally clears, you are a sweaty, panting mess. The king is in a similar state – chest heaving, pupils blown so wide that his eyes gleam red, revealing his true Jotun heritage.

“I must have you,” he says hoarsely, “ _Now_.”

“Then – have – me,” you gasp, then let out a whined grumble of protest when he withdraws his fingers to start yanking at the lacing on his trousers. He kisses you, cutting off your protestations, finishes freeing his cock from the confines of his clothing, and then yanks you down, positioning you at the very edge of the bed and to give him unfettered access to your weeping center.

The silky head of his shaft has only just started to ease between your folds when someone loudly pounds on the infirmary room door.  

You both freeze.

_“Your highness?”_

It is Sindri.

Swearing, Loki raises his head, his bottom lip curling in irritation as his eyes slide in the direction of the door.

“Just a moment!” you call out, and then mouth, _“What?!”_ when your husband’s looks at you accusingly. You have been queen for less than a month; you at least need to _try_ and keep up appearances.

“I’ll kill him,” Loki growls as you wriggle out from under him.

“You will do no such thing,” you admonish. You push yourself up to a seated position and glance around frantically in search of your bodice.

The king folds his arms over his chest and lifts an eyebrow, watching you.

“Why not? Do you like him?”

Your head whips around. “No, I hate him!”

He nods briskly. “Excellent. Then I will kill him for you.”

Your jaw drops.

“You cannot be serious!”

“Consider it a wedding gift,” the king suggests.

“I carry your wedding gift in my womb!” you hiss.

“An anniversary present?”

_“Your highness! I must speak with you!”_

Loki is lazily aiming a glowing bolt of Seidr at the infirmary door when you reach out and fist the collar of his tunic, yanking him down until he is level with your eyes. From the grin on his face, you know he views you as no more formidable than a raging kitten trapped in a teacup, but you nevertheless give him your severest scowl.

“Sire, you will set us both back to rights _this instant_ ,” you inform him tightly, “And you will murder _no_ one, certainly not on my behalf.”

“Oh, I _like_ this,” he laughs approvingly, “You are coming into your own, little queen.”

“Someone must keep you in line,” you retort, releasing him.

_“Your highness, it is of utmost urgency…”_

Loki draws himself up, giving his tunic a quick tug at the waist to straighten it, and then flicks his fingers in your direction. You squeak in surprise as a new bodice – this one is constructed of gathered silk instead of brocade – sews itself around your torso. The finished result clings to your waist but blouses just enough at the top to keep you comfortable, supported, and modest.

You make a mental note to appoint Loki your permanent seamstress.

“And lace your trousers!” you hiss as he steps towards the door. _He_ may not take issue with his gadding about sporting a massive erection, but _you_ did.

Rolling his eyes, he tucks himself back in, and yanks open the door.

Sindri appears most put out that he was been kept waiting and gives you an accusatory glare, obviously assuming it was you who kept the king from answering the door in a timelier fashion.

Turning his eyes back to the king, he draws himself up to maximize every inch of his diminutive height and announces, “I _must_ speak with you, your highness.”

“You _are_ speaking with me, Master Sindri,” Loki replies, sounding wholly unenthused about this fact.

“ _Privately_ ,” the physician insists. He is not in the least bit flustered by the king’s unbridled irritation. “It concerns a court matter.”

Loki’s brows lift to his hairline; yours do the same.

“A matter of court that does not concern the queen? Hm. Most interesting.”

The physician will not be swayed, however, and stands his ground. “Sire, _please_.” 

With another roll of his eyes, Loki sends you an apologetic look, and you nod in reply, understanding what he does not say – that the sooner he humors the physician, the sooner you both will be relieved of his presence.

Both men exit the infirmary, Sindri talking in low, urgent tones as the door swings shut behind them.

You count to ten before scrambling down from the healing bed, and rush over to the exit to press your ear to the door. The sound of the conversation on the opposite side is muffled, but you are able to make out most of what is being said – and you are discomfited to realize that the topic of discussion is _you_.

"…know that she functions! Sire, we _must_ seize this opportunity!"

"Exactly what are you suggesting?" 

"This is a chance to provide Asgard with not only one, but two full-blooded heirs,” you hear Sindri reply, _“And_ simultaneously secure the generation after! Sire, I have run the test. Your daughter is fertile –”

His sentence ends in a strangled grunt, followed by a thump that sounds suspiciously akin to a body being slammed into a wall.

You can feel the start to draining from your face when the king speaks next:

“If you wish to keep your head attached to your neck, Master Sindri, you will _never_ speak of this topic again,” he hisses, words darkening into a feral snarl as he finishes, “else you will be for the axe, which I will swing myself – and I plan on taking my time.”

The abject fury in your husband’s voice – combined with his threat to kill the physician only minutes earlier – makes you panic, and you yank open the door, frightened that he might actually be making good on his word.

You burst into the hallway, the words, “My lord, please…!” dying on your lips at the sight that greets you: Sindri, pinned to the wall, gurgling, feet kicking helplessly mid-air, and both hands desperately scrabbling at his neck, which is encased in your husband’s white-knuckled grip. The latter is leaning nose-to-nose with the physician; his teeth are bared and he is so enraged that he is nigh unrecognizable until the moment he sees you standing in the doorway.

His eyes meet yours, and an expression crosses his face that you have never seen before: Horror and fear -- for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't totally know where I am headed with this, so it may be awhile until Chapter Three is up. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who kudo'd and commented -- you're the reason there is a Chapter Two!
> 
> Also, thanks and hugs to [Devilish Doll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishDoll/pseuds/DevilishDoll), who suggested Sindri's name when I was drawing a total blank. ("Help! I need an Asgardian sounding name for a physician. He's male and a pompous little fuck.")


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have the space for rent in my head to work out an official age difference between Loki and Reader, and I’m deliberately keeping things vague so you can fill in details as you see fit. But she is 110% of the age of consent, and the Loki in this fic is not into sleeping with teenage girls. You guys can take it from there.
> 
> And - the response to this fic continues to be staggering. Thank you for the kudos and comments -- cliches aside, they mean a lot. I was a horrible person and held off on posting this chapter until the fic reached 300 kudos. Please know that I will not make this a precedent from now on, but in all my years of writing fanfiction, I have never had the luxury of setting a ridiculous goal for follows/kudos, and I decided to indulge myself just this once. <3 
> 
> See ya'll in chapter 4, and once again, thank you to [Devilish Doll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishDoll/pseuds/DevilishDoll) for proofing and feedback and encouragement!

The king does not utter a word as you leave the infirmary and hauls you down the corridors and back to your chambers at slightly less than breakneck speed. He releases you as soon as you cross the threshold and makes his way to your bed, raking a hand through his hair as he sinks heavily down on the deep blue velvet coverlet.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands. You are full of questions, but your husband is lost in thought, and you sense that for the time being, it is best to let him lead the conversation.

After a long minute of tense silence, he scrubs a hand down his face and looks up at you.

“What do you know of Ragnarok?”

Your blink in surprise. Of all the topics of discussion you had anticipated, this was not one of them.

“I know that it was the end of Old Asgard,” you say uncertainly.

His eyes crinkle around the edges, revealing his dismay. “But no more than that?”

You shake your head.

“And what of your parents?”

This topic is an open wound, and you shake your head again, slowly.

The king’s face darkens with disgust.

“Your instructors ought to be flogged,” he mutters. Then he sighs and holds out his arm to you, beckoning you over. “It is time for a history lesson. Come.”

You go to him immediately, and press in close when he brings you onto his lap. Whatever game is afoot, it must be of a truly terrible nature to have him so upset.

“Three hundred years ago,” he began, “Two beings – Hela, the eldest sister of Odin, and Surtur, the ruler of Muspelheim – laid waste to all of Asgard. Those who are alive today were the lone survivors of this event, aside from the odd few who were off-realm at the time. Your father perished, and your mother was wounded, but lived long enough after Asgard’s destruction to give birth to you.”

He pauses, his face growing stricken when he sees that you have started to cry.

“I am so sorry, darling,” he whispers, holding you tightly in his arms as you bury your face in his shoulder. “You should have been told.”

“I learned not to ask questions,” you mumble into his shirt. Your voice is strangled with tears, but you swallow hard and force back the sobs. There will be time to grieve later.

After a few hiccupped gulps, you are able to speak again.

“My mother lived long enough to give birth to me,” you repeat unsteadily, and then – picking up from where you do have knowledge of past events – you add, “And no one knows why.”

The king shakes his head.

“That is the official story,” he answers. “Hela was…a masterful sorceress, and the mistress of death at that. She drew her power from Asgard itself, but Surtur proved no match for her. When she realized he would triumph and that the Realm would ultimately be lost to her, she cursed our people with her own unique brand of damnation: Eventual extinction. Men were unaffected, but all females were rendered barren from that day forward.

“You were yet unborn,” he continues, “which shielded you from the curse’s effects. It was Sindri who discovered this fact. Everything went into motion after that,” his voice grows distant as he recalls this volatile time in Asgard’s history, “Your mother was a handmaiden of the Queen’s, and it was in keeping with tradition that you be raised at court…what remained of it, anyway. But,” his jaw tightens, “Sindri’s influence was far reaching enough that you were squirreled away in infancy – ‘for your protection,’ he claimed. And, like it or not, you _had_ to be kept safe.”

Your husband shifts you on his knee, wanting to see your face, and smooths a hand over your hair – for your comfort, or his, you are not certain.

“You were – and remain – the last hope of our people,” he acknowledges, “and moreover, also of noble blood. Odin’s line would be secure; it was simply a matter of you reaching childbearing age.

“You were betrothed in childhood to Thor,” he continues, sighing, “the responsibility –” He pauses and corrects himself, “The _honor_ of which fell to me when he abdicated the throne. Sindri wanted us wed as soon as you began your cycles, but I fought the marriage as long as I could, wanting to give you time to grow up, and for me to think of a different solution. Meanwhile, our people were slowly dying off, and Sindri was beginning to sow the first seeds of discord regarding my claim to the crown.

“And so I came up with my grand scheme.” He pauses and gives you a sad smile, “That once we were married, we would go through the motions and eventually have our nuptials annulled. Thor would then have to return, of course, but,” a smirk touches his mouth, “it does not take much to convince our former prince to drink to excess, and fooling him into thinking the marriage had been consummated would be easily accomplished.”

Your nose wrinkles at such a prospect, but you say nothing, morbidly curious to hear more of this potential future that had been envisioned for you.

“A few more unsuccessful attempts at conception,” the king says with a shrug, “drugging Thor each time, and planting false memories in his head of those said attempts – and I would have justification to not only publically call into question Sindri’s expertise, but also insist you be permitted to marry a man of your choosing, regardless of station. That the situation was so dire that we no longer had the luxury of trying to perpetuate Odin’s lineage, and nobility could be granted after the fact.

“But,” he tenderly tucks back a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “then you – you, my lovely, perfect, wonderful wife – came along…and defied my every expectation.”

Frustrated, you squirm out of the king’s lap and stand to look at him directly.

“I still do not understand what this has to do with your conversation with Sindri,” you tell him. “I am with child, thus Odin’s line has been secured. What could he have possibly said just now that angered you so?”

“I am half-Jotunn by birth,” your husband explains, “Technically the bastard son, but the Allfather appointed me next in the line of succession before he died. As such, any child of mine is joins that line of succession. The legitimacy of my heirs should not be in question, but there is a growing faction of individuals who view me to be no more than a usurper. That Thor is the rightful king of Asgard, despite his abdication of the title of Crown Prince before Odin’s death. Sindri is part of this group.”

“But then why create the fertility portion?” you protest. “Why would he have bothered, if he did not truly want us to conceive?”

Your husband looks more sorrowful than you have ever seen him. He places his hand on your stomach and quietly says, “One bloodline. After she is born, Sindri and his sycophants would have you lie with Thor,” his voice caught but then steadied, “and him get you with child. Two bloodlines. And then…”

He stops short, unable to bring himself to say the words.

“When our daughter comes of age,” you finish dully, “he would have Thor get her with child as well. Three bloodlines. Two of which are pure Aesir.”

You are trying to parse through this horrifying realization when the room suddenly tilts on end and your knees give out. Over the roaring in your ears you hear the king frantically calling your name, and somehow you manage to mumble, “I’m going to be sick,” just in time for him to rush you to the privy before you vomit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to end up sounding like a broken record, but the level of interest in this fic continues to blow my mind. Thank you for all the comments and encouragement. Never in my life did I anticipate this thing having a plot, let alone it appealing to so many.

You lie limp on your side on the cold marble floor with your head in the king’s lap. Lost in a daze, the occasional tear drifting down your face, you stare listlessly into space as he strokes your hair, as he has been doing for the last hour.

The numbness that clouded your brain for these last few years, the only way that you had managed to endure each passing day that steadily marched you to your dreaded fate, has returned in full force – worse, even. For now you have known a life fully lived, only to have it snatched away in a heartbeat.

You had been so happy.

Fool.

“Say something,” whispers the king, breaking the silence, “Please.”

You roll onto your back and look up at him.

“How long have you known?”

He looks down at you, puzzled.

“How long have I known what, my love?”

The lifelessness in your voice belies the cruel truth of your reply, “That I was to be bred like an animal, along with our daughter.”

The king’s eyes well with tears, but none fall.

“I forgot,” he confesses softly.

The heat of your anger clears a bit of the numbness in your brain and you push yourself away from him.

“You _forgot?”_ you repeat incredulously. You clamber to your feet and stand above him, hands fisted at your sides. “You are the _king_ ,” you tell him angrily, “You do not _forget_ , least of all something as grave as this!”

He tilts his head up to you, and as you glare down at him, the twisted, bitter smile that you have not seen since your wedding night slowly returns to his face – but now carries such pain that suddenly you begin to regret the harshness of your words.

“Who would want to bear the heir of Loki?” he asks you mockingly, still wearing that same awful smile as he rises to stand. “Loki the Liar, the Jotun, the _monster._ The lesser son of Odin,” his voice harshens, “who stole the throne out from Asgard’s true prince. Who would want to bear the heir of such a creature?” he spits.

It is a rhetorical question, and a tear slowly rolls down his cheek as you look back at one another, his gaze locked with your own. Another tear soon follows the first, taking with it the ferocity in your husband’s expression and leaving behind helpless, poignant regret.

“But then _you_ happened,” he whispers, “You, who wanted my child, wanted _me_.” He moves to take a step towards you but then halts, as if he feels he no longer has the right to come any closer. Taking a ragged breath, he continues, “In you, I found all I have ever longed for, for all of my life – a love, a wife, and a family. Watching you come alive these last few weeks – being with you, loving you, holding you in my arms at night and finding you still in my embrace in the morning – is the happiest I have ever been.

“So, yes, my lady,” his voice chokes, but he presses on nevertheless, “in the midst of living this dream made real…I forgot the wretched circumstances that made it all possible in the first place.”

The king falls silent. You stare at him, open-mouthed with shock, heart pounding in your chest so violently that you can see the throbbing of your breast in the periphery of your vision. He is waiting for you to speak, and grows visibly frantic when you continue to say nothing.

“Gods, say you believe me,” he begs, “ _Please_.”

He stumbles towards you, and for the second time that morning, your husband drops to his knees at your feet. He fists your skirt with both hands and looks up at you with desperate, red-rimmed eyes.

“Please,” he says again. “You must believe me,” his voice trembles and then breaks, “From every other person in this realm, I can withstand their looks of disdain and disbelief, but I cannot bear it from you. I will do anything. _Anything_ ,” he begins scrambling for ways to convince you of his sincerity, “I will have our marriage annulled. You never have to see me again. I’ll – I’ll…”

His eyes drop to your stomach and his lips go chalk white as he reaches out with shaking hands, but does not touch, “I can – I can –“

You realize what he is offering and step back, horrified, your arms drawn protectively around your middle.

“ _No_ ,” you cry.

The tears that have continued to fill his eyes all this time now begin coursing down his cheeks, and he embraces the lower half of your body, burying his face in your skirts. His shoulders shake with silent, heaving sobs of relief – relief in the knowledge that even if you do not believe him, that even if from this moment forward you want nothing to do with him, your hatred does not extend to his child.

In that moment, you realize two things:

You are married to a man who is inherently _good_. He could have taken you by force, impregnated you with the children that he so desperately wanted, but did not. Because to do so was wrong, and his conviction was such that he already had devised a plan that would ensure your safety. And now, convinced that he was on the verge of losing everything, he _still_ wanted to set things right however he could – even if it meant destroying what his heart held most dear, equal to only you.

Second: You realize that he is your king, but no longer your lord. He is simply your husband. Your Loki. A man who has spent his life as a ship unmoored in a vast, raging sea. For the briefest moment in time, you had been his guiding light, but now it was over, undone as a result of his own unwitting oversight –

Or so he thought.

Easing yourself down to the floor, you wrap your arms around Loki’s shoulders and draw him close. He clings to you, saying, “I’m sorry,” over and over as he weeps.

You kiss the top of his head, rest your cheek on his hair, and begin to hush and rock him as if he were a little boy, whispering soothing words, and using your voice and your arms to anchor him.

It is a well-known fact throughout the realm that Asgard’s king is a complicated man; even this information made its way to you, sheltered as you were. Powerful. Brilliant. Terrifying, at times. A force with which to be reckoned in every respect. But only you will ever know the emotional damage that lurks beneath, and only time will tell how deeply-wrought the scars are upon his heart.

The shadows outside are growing long by the time Loki finally regains his composure. At last he straightens, pulling away from you and takes a deep breath. You can physically see the subtle transformation in his face and form as he sheds his role as husband and re-dons the mantle of sovereign, regality sweeping its way over him like a blanket.

But bafflement comes into his eyes when you take the fabric of your skirt in hand and begin to dry his face.

“My lady?” he asks, brows puckered in dismay.

His abject confusion makes your heart wrench.

“You have not called me ‘my lady’ since I became your wife,” you remark as wipe his tearstained cheeks, “and I would rather you not start now.”

Disbelief is written plainly over his face and he continues to watch you, unable to comprehend how or why you are still speaking to him, let alone willing to touch him. With a sigh, you rise onto your knees and gather his face in your hands, leaning in to kiss him gently. Tears spring into your own eyes when he does not return the kiss, and you draw back.

“Loki, I love you,” you tell him fiercely. “Nothing will ever change that. Bearing your child is no burden, and the happiest day of my life will be when I see you holding her for the first time.”

Hope momentarily flickers across his face.

“You…you forgive me?” he whispers.

“There is nothing to forgive,” you state, emphatically shaking your head. “It was an accident. It happens.”

Streaming blue eyes continue to stare into yours until finally he seems able to accept that you speak the truth – or at the very least, for the moment, are not lying.

He swallows and looks away, struggling to remain collected. Once he is certain he has a hold upon his emotions, he climbs to his feet, pulls you up after him and leads you by the hand back to your bedchamber.

You assume lovemaking is to follow and wait for him to vanish away both of your clothes, but instead he wordlessly helps you onto the bed without bothering to draw back the covers. Mystified, you do not protest as he lays you down and begins arranging you so you are propped comfortably on the pillows, moving your limbs how he sees fit.

Once he is satisfied with your positioning – still having not said a word – he climbs in alongside you. He lifts your arm to tuck himself beneath it, wraps both his arms around your waist, and curls up beside you with his head carefully resting on your breast.

Your hand comes up to stroke his hair, and you start to tell him you love him, but he is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to chapter 4! Wait, 5? Whatever, I'm exhausted. Y'all go smoke your cigarettes and take your cold showers and I will see you in whatever numbered chapter comes next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead. 
> 
> Endless thank yous to you guys for the enthusiasm and comments and encouragement. I check the kudo count every day…and then get kind of terrified, which is why I am asking this next question:
> 
> Would any of you be willing to pay $1 to read the rest of this if I self-published it as an ebook, like for Kindle? Or put out one of those kofi things? ("Fuck no!" is a perfectly acceptable answer.) I never thought I would write this sort of genre, let alone be reasonably decent at it. But I have three kids I need to put through college, and so I thought I would pitch the idea to see what your feedback was, or if there would even be any. Seriously, please let me know. 
> 
> (Next chapter is smutty AF, by the way, and WILL be posted regardless of what the general consensus is re: reading gratis or ponying up a dollar. To quote Jafar, the way I feel about the level of sexual lunacy in Chapter 6 is: “On a scale of one to ten, YOU are an ELEVEN!”)

It is not befitting for the queen of Asgard to tremble with excitement in anticipation of the king’s return after a long journey. 

Neither is it befitting for the queen of Asgard to greet the king at the entrance of Heimdall’s observatory. Traditionally, she remains at the palace, dignified, elegantly dressed, waiting in her chambers to welcome him home. 

And it is especially not befitting the queen of Asgard to be wrapped in the king’s cape, sitting bareback astride his horse, her wind-blown hair flying every which way after tearing down the Rainbow Bridge the moment she was out of sight of the stables. 

The current queen of Asgard, however, has spent the last month fiercely missing her husband – hence your unprecedented decision to join Heimdall in the dead of night as he opens the Bifrost for the king and his envoy as they return from Alfheim. 

Both you and the Gatekeeper are conversing quietly when the latter receives a hidden signal privy only to him. Hefting his great golden sword, he inserts Hofud into the switch mounted in the floor and then sharply twists the hilt. 

The Bifrost flares to life at his command, and the gates between the realms begin to spin, sending forth a bridge down to Alfheim’s capital city. Your breath quickens as the dizzying prisms of light before you transform into a miasma; you have yet to travel via Bifrost, but Loki has promised to remedy this as soon as time allows, and you are eager to experience the phenomenon for yourself.

A familiar form starts begins taking shape amidst the swirling vortex, and you impatiently slide down from the horse, barely remembering to set aside the satchel you had brought with you from the palace.

The Bifrost slows and then gradually comes to a standstill. As Heimdall retracts his sword, you can see that eight individuals have come into being on the platform. One stands taller than the rest, whose eyes light up the moment he spots you, followed by a flash of amusement when he sees his cape clasped around your shoulders. 

Loki hastens down the steps and strides towards you, chin canted high.

“How do my wife and daughter fare?” he asks softly the moment he is within earshot.

“Hale and hearty, my lord,” you answer, tilting your head up to receive his kiss as he stoops down, “And we have a surprise for you.”

“What a coincidence,” he chuckles, within a hairsbreadth of your mouth, “I have one for you both as well.”

His lips slant across yours before you can correct him, and a happy sigh escapes you as you are greeted with the gentlest, sweetest of kisses, its chasteness somehow making it all the more perfect. 

Mouth still tenderly exploring yours, Loki’s hand seeks out your belly next, wishing to also greet his unborn offspring.

His palm has no sooner settled against the fabric of your gown when he startles and jerks a half-step back.

“Surprise,” you whisper, beaming up at him.

He looks down at you in shock, and barely manages to stammer your name before words fail him completely – understandably so, for upon his departure, only one heart sat beating inside your womb, and now there are two.

You wait for him to speak but when he only continues to gape at you, you realize that Loki is (for once) struck well and truly speechless.

Stifling your laughter, you glance around his arm to where the retinue of Einjerar stands, still waiting to be dismissed. The king’s back is to them, concealing his face, nevertheless you prefer to draw their attention away from their stupefied sovereign.

“My thanks to you for bringing my husband home safely, Captain,” you call to them, “and on behalf of all of Asgard, please also accept my gratitude for your service. Private chambers, hot baths and meals await each of you.”

The guards exchange looks, surprised by this unexpected gesture. 

“Thank you, my queen,” the Captain says gratefully as she steps down from the platform. 

“You give me too much credit, madam,” you smile, “I did so at the bidding of my husband.”

(Your husband in actuality made no such command but is still caught in such a profound state of astonishment to make any inquiry why you are assigning him credit where none is due.)

“However,” you continue, now speaking sincerely, “I will be sure to make this standard practice in the future to welcome you home. I know your families have missed you, and we would be remiss to not return you to them fed and well-rested.”

By now Loki has recovered enough to manage a curt nod in acknowledgement as the Einherjar begin to file by. Each makes a quick kneel of obeisance before you both prior to exiting, a few of them also gruffly expressing their thanks upon rising back to their feet.

When you are alone again – save for Heimdall, who once more is standing guard at his post – the king turns to you and blurts out the question that has left him reeling these past few minutes.

_“How?!”_

“It a rare, but not unheard of, phenomenon with Jotunns,” you hastily explain. “I took ill the day after you left for Alfheim. I had assumed it was simply morning sickness, but the midwives insisted I have another scan all the same. And,” your voice catches as you remember seeing the Soul Forge reveal the true source of your nausea, “there they were.”

Loki’s eyes have been growing bright with tears, and he wraps you tightly in his embrace when you fall silent. Head drooping down to press a kiss against the top of your head, he takes a shaky breath and says, “I am rarely surprised, but…this is a surprise. Two daughters…” His voice trails off in wonderment.

“A good one, I hope?”

There is a slight tightening of his arms around you, and then he draws back just far enough to meet your eyes. 

You know the question that will come next.  

“What of the risk to you?” Loki asks quietly.

His fear is plainly marked upon his face, along with resentment, self-blame, and sorrow, that were it not for his heritage, this moment would be filled with nothing but joy. 

“Aside from being the size of a bilgesnipe by the time I give birth?” you reply, trying to make him laugh.

The king is not in the least bit swayed by your attempt at humor and gathers your face in his hands, utterly heart-stricken as he gazes back at you. 

“Why was I not told?” He seems anguished by the thought that you have solely borne the weight of this burden, and whispers, “Surely you know I would have come home.”

You reach up to where his hands are clasped against your cheeks and intertwine your fingers with his, turning your head to press a kiss against each of his palms.

“You would have come home in an instant,” you agree, looking back up at him, “and risked Alfheim going to war with Nornheim as a result, which is precisely why I ordered Heimdall to threaten the midwives with penalty of death should the news make its way to you.”

The prospect of you having made such an outrageous command momentarily pierces his fears, and a delighted snort of laughter escapes him.

“My fierce little Valkyrie,” he teases fondly. “I’m impressed. And how, might I ask, did you manage to accomplish such a feat?”

“What good is being queen if I cannot abuse the privileges of the crown every once in a while?” you shrug.

Your blatant lack of remorse brings forth a genuine smile to Loki’s face, but he quickly sobers.

“You’ve yet to answer my question, pet.”

With a sigh, you stand on your toes and reach for his shoulders, a signal Loki has come to learn means you wish to look him in the eye but need his assistance to do so. He hitches you up, and a moment later you are in his arms, feet dangling. 

“Try not to look as if you are about to lay me on my pyre, please,” you request, “I have kept myself busy these last few weeks, and what I discovered suggests that there is no further risk to me – or your daughters – than if this were an ordinary pregnancy.”

“You seem fairly certain of yourself,” Loki observes, sounding unconvinced.

You kiss the tip of his nose. “Just as certain as I am that you are _dreadfully_ tall, my lord.”

He sets you back on your feet with a smirk and permits you to lead him over to the horse.

“I saw no merit in waiting for rescue,” you explain as you walk, his cape trailing behind you, “And as soon as I could keep my food again, I decided to go searching for answers on my own.”

You both draw up alongside Loki’s mare, who whinnies affectionately before thrusting her nose into her master’s tunic, shamelessly demanding snacks.

As your husband plucks an apple out of the air and begins murmuring compliments to the spoiled creature, you kneel to fetch the satchel that you had left resting by her hooves.

“What’s this?” Loki asks, watching you open the flap and reach inside. He lowers himself across from you on one knee and looks quite puzzled when you pull out a textbook. Absconding literature out of the library is hardly a new habit of yours, but this is the first time he has seen you show interest in medical texts.

The tome you hand over to him is in poor condition, its leather cover cracked and crumbling, the golden runes stamped on its front flaking away. It, along with thousands of others, had survived the fires of Ragnarok thanks to Loki and Queen Frigga, who had used their combined Seidr to transport away as much of what could be preserved in those last few minutes before Old Asgard’s destruction. It was credit to them and them alone that New Asgard had been restored so rapidly.

Loki’s brows lift in surprise when he sees the title, which remains legible, albeit faded.

“You never mentioned you could read Nilfari,” he remarks, flipping open the front cover.

“I couldn’t,” you shake your head, “So I taught myself.”

Loki nearly drops the book, mouth agape.

“You taught yourself Nilfari,” he exclaims incredulously when he has found his voice again, “in a _month?”_

“I think it was a week?” You cannot quite remember, neither do you understand why it matters at all. “The system of grammar is obscure, but it wasn’t difficult once I learned the pattern of the conjugations.” 

Loki is looking at you strangely, but whatever is on his mind at that moment, he sets aside to discuss at another time. He glances down at the page you marked and begins to read, eyes rapidly scanning back and forth. Hope initially warms his countenance but gradually dims the longer he reads, before snuffing out entirely when he reaches the end of the passage.

He carefully shuts the text and proffers you a weary smile.

“This spell is intended to be used for Aesir and Ljósálfar couplings, little one,” he explains, gentling his voice in anticipation of your inevitable disappointment, “It is a good thought, but –”

“I _know_ that,” you snap. Irritated that he thinks you so simple-minded to have overlooked something so ridiculously obvious, you snatch back the book, re-open it and then shove it before him, pointing at the bottom of the page. “Look at the footnote.”

“What footnote – oh.”

Loki squints at where you are indicating. Barely-visibly runes are hand-printed at the very bottom of the page, the ink having faded greatly with time.

“ ‘See Frode’s study on hybrid-Jotunns,’” he reads aloud, “conducted in the Second Era of Bor…”

His expression suddenly grows distant and his voice trails off. You watch in confusion as he slowly stands up and turns to gaze out over the Bifrost. He is lost in thought, one hand absently stroking the mare’s nose as he studies the Bridge’s horizon, as if in its infinitely-hued depths lie answers to questions that have plagued him all of his life – questions he has yet to reveal to you.

Feeling an irrational stab of jealousy towards the horse, you quickly scramble to your feet and come to stand before your husband; he is so near, and yet he feels just as many lightyears away as when he had been on Alfheim.

“Loki?”

He blinks, and you are relieved to see his focus return to the present. Realizing he is making you anxious, Loki takes a deep breath and tries to explain.

“I remember looking for Frode’s research as a boy,” he tells you, “two, maybe three times over, but I was never able to locate it.”

“Whatever prompted your interest in such a topic at so early an age?” you asked, baffled by the very thought of him scouring the shelves as a child, holed up in the medical section of the library.

Loki bites his lip, hesitating. Unlike before, _this_ is an expression you recognize, and you reach forward to stroke his cheek. His eyes close as he leans into your touch and remain closed as he reluctantly goes to speak.

“It was after I began to suspect my I was not the true son of Odin,” he confesses. “There were…signs, early on, and I wanted to learn everything I could. But,” he sigh and opens his eyes, “That is a story for another day.”

“And I am here to listen whenever you are ready to share it,” you promise him.

Your gentle words are a caress to his fractured heart and belie the prayer you are silently offering up to the Norns, an entreaty that Odin be expelled from Valhalla and sent straight to the scorching fires of Hel.

Loki – wholly unaware of the rage that burns within you on his behalf – has no wish to continue dwelling upon his past, however. He manages a faint smile as he catches your hand in his and presses a quick kiss against the inside of your wrist.

“Enough of that,” he declares, speaking more to himself than to you. Drawing himself up, his smile broadens somewhat, and he cocks his head, regarding you curiously.

“Given the triumphant gleam you are still trying to conceal in your exquisite eyes – you are failing at it, by the way – can I presume you have found Frode’s text?” he inquires.

You are grateful for the change in topic; it would not do that this, of all nights, be tainted with thoughts of Loki’s beast of an adopted father.

“I did _not_ find the text,” you affirm, “because it is not a text.”

You go to bend back down but Loki stops you, not wanting you to overexert yourself, and snags up the satchel for you with a lanky arm. He hands it over, and you reach inside once more, this time pulling out a folded piece of parchment. It, like the book, is in a fragile state, the paper so brittle that its creases have rendered it in danger of falling apart at the seams.

Loki draws a quick breath of excitement as you cautiously unfold the parchment and hold it out for his perusal.

“The spell appears to be simple enough,” you explain as he begins to read, smiling to yourself when you notice the hope that has re-entered his eyes. “Growth in utero is slowed, but not development, and the enchantment can be lifted any time. The infants are born small, but perfectly healthy, and by all accounts catch up rapidly after delivery.” 

The sole remaining copy of Frode’s study on hybrid-Jotunns flutters to the ground as Loki roughly pulls you to his side and into his arms, clutching on to you as if you were in danger of toppling off the side of the Bridge.  

“Well done, little wife,” he says, his voice thick with emotion as he speaks into your hair, “Your brilliance puts every scholar in this realm to shame.” 

“Only because every scholar in this realm was not motivated by the prospect of dying in childbirth,” you mutter darkly, and then cringe when you realize you have spoken these words aloud.

Loki’s embrace grows painfully tight in response, his vivid imagination no doubt bringing gruesome images of this prospect straight into his mind’s eye.

You gently wrest yourself out of his grip and take both of his hands in yours; you will _not_ permit him to fall victim to his anxiety.

“Here, my love,” you tell him soothingly, “Put your mind here – right here.” You press his palm to your middle, cover his hand with your own, and wait.

Loki looks at you blankly, his thoughts ensnared in a whirlwind, his brows pulled together in confusion.

“You never finished greeting them properly,” you remind him, smiling.

Realization dawns upon him then, and the worry lines in his face gradually ease and fade. You stand before his very eyes – glowing, radiant, a veritable portrait of a healthy mother-to-be – and have just equipped him with the knowledge of how to ensure your safety throughout the remainder of your pregnancy.

At last, Loki is able to return his attention to the present – to you…

…And his children.

Looking excited – _truly_ excited – he returns your beaming smile, and you both glance down in unison to where your hand still rests over his.

Loki’s mouth parts in delight at what he sees.

A month ago, his hand had rested flat against your abdomen as he had kissed you goodbye, whereas now it curves over the distinct swell of your growing womb. You watch him draw his palm over your belly in a slow arc, just below your navel, and find yourself having to fight tears as he eagerly familiarizes himself with your new shape.

“You feel twice as round as when I last saw you,” he finally breathes, sounding pleased. 

“That’s hardly saying much,” you say with a watery laugh, “Seeing as I did not look pregnant at all when you left, and now there is now good reason why I am twice the size.”

Without another word, Loki scoops you up and carries you over to the steps at the entrance of the Observatory, where he takes a seat before settling you on his lap. You lean your cheek on his shoulder with a contented sigh, and you both spend the next few minutes watching the stars and enjoying the simple comfort of the quiet and the warmth of each other.

“It is late,” he murmurs when he catches you trying to stifle a yawn against his neck, “The mother of my children ought to be asleep in bed.”

“You’re _home_ ,” you answer petulantly, “And while I would be happy to be in bed, I have absolutely no interest in being asleep in it.”

Loki’s laughter rings out, echoing throughout the gleaming walls of the Observatory. It is the most joyful sound you have heard in weeks, second only to his voice.

You are quickly bundled up in his cape and escorted back to the horse, who nickers placidly as Loki conjures a saddle upon her back. Pausing long enough to give you a deliberate look to convey his displeasure that you had taken the risk of riding bareback, he then lifts you up, swiftly swinging into the saddle behind you once you are seated. 

You wait for him to take the reins, but his hand is at your belly again, and you cannot suppress a snorted laugh as you feel his hardening length begin to press at your back. 

“I, too, have absolutely no interest in being asleep in bed,” he solemnly observes as you lift the reins into your own hands, “How convenient it is that we are of the same mind.” 

You roll your eyes at the feigned virtue in his voice…and then nudge the mare into a gallop when Loki’s other hand snakes up and begins massaging your breasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's way too late here to bother with a final proofread. Sorry for any typos, I'll fix 'em later.


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